


Built to fall

by Medea_17



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Murphamy - Freeform, Murphy-centric, Self-Harm, murphy comes back s3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medea_17/pseuds/Medea_17
Summary: When they first grounded, Murphy felt betrayed by Bellamy actions.When he finally comes back for good, Murphy is betrayed by Bellamy, but he's past that. He lives with the pain.[Set during season 1 to 3 when Bellamy makes one of the biggest mistakes in his life, sort of an AU]





	1. Preface

**BUILT TO FALL**

_When the sun goes down, the beast takes out their claws to feast on the traitor’s blood._

_It’s revenge._

**1.**

When they first grounded, he smelt freedom. He observed Mbege knelt on the ground, laughing, crying and almost kissing the ground. He thought this was the chance to live; he was so tired of trying to survive, a noose around his neck every time he so much dares to breathe the same air of one of the privileged ones.

Bellamy Blake was the one who took them under his wing. He trusted him; he looked up to him; he even developed a crush on him. Therefore, Murphy didn’t doubt when he offered him a space on his tent, of his (makeshift) bed. He felt euphoric just because Bellamy **_noticed_** him. He gave his whole to Bellamy that night.

Bellamy didn’t trust him at all. He proved that when he didn’t advocate for him, when Bellamy beat him up, when Bellamy banished him from camp, and overall when he waited until the noose was around his own neck to apologise — always looking down on him.

**2.**

He took the knife hidden in his boots and slit from his first to the inside of his elbow. His eyes went white and the knot on his throat disappeared. He pressed the fresh wound with a rag made from a t-shirt, and after the blood stopped spilling, he cleaned it with the little water he had left and bandage his arm. The pain in his head subsided and he could see now through the fog; the pain from the wound kept him grounded, even when it bothered him to move his arm.

**3.**

A grounder took him when the night hit. They yell at him, accused him and tortured him. _Not again_ , his sarcastic self spoke.

That night, Murphy arrived at camp Jaha, now Arkadia, limping and bleeding. He fell to the ground when the doors were opened. His mind was hazy. It hurt so much, he wanted to throw out, and so he did. Mostly blood and bile.

By the time he opened his eyes, he was in the infirmary. Alone, hurt and cold. He stopped talking to anyone.

**4.**

Like their arrival to the ground, Bellamy Blake took him under his wing. Maybe, out of pity and because no one else talked to him. He must felt blessed. Murphy stopped talking, making much easier his work.

Slowly, just like the rain fills up a river, Murphy trusted someone for the last time.


	2. SURRENDER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy Blake was the one who took them under his wing. He trusted him, he looked up to him, he even developed a crush on him. Therefore, he didn’t doubt when he offered him a space on his tent, of his (makeshift) bed. He felt euphoric just because Bellamy noticed him. He gave his whole to Bellamy that night.

**BUILT TO FALL**

_I just can’t recall… trusting you at all. How can I live with you when you betray me all the time?_

_Feels like I die for you, loving you is my crime._

I can’t go on like this; you ** _are my Judas kiss._**

**1.**

In space, life was difficult, but he dreams of those times it wasn’t. He dreams of when his father would carry him on his shoulders around the ship, he would scream and laugh, and everybody would look at them with soft and warm smiles; dreams of his mother caressing his silky hair while reading whatever book they found available on the ship. He dreams of those shining moments, and he imagines it because they seem so _unreal_ to him now.

Murphy also remembers. He remembers the cries and pleas of his mother, the fear of not knowing what was going on, his mind to hazy due to the fever and headache. He remembers that one day, his father was gone and he didn’t notice nor could say his goodbyes. Murphy also remembers the cold glares and the hate from his mother, her: _“It was your fault, John. You’re useless, John. Why didn’t you get float instead of him?”_ And so on. He also remembers the bottles she threw at him, the scars and the puke all over her. Murphy remembers her dead on her puke; he felt relieved and scared.

After he is left alone, he tries to survive by himself. He is sent to the skybox countless times. He became a thief out of necessity, but no one could understand he was just a kid trying to survive. He knew there was a countdown until he was finally floated. Soon he will be eighteen, and he would be _out_. That was until a guard entered his cell and forcefully injected him a somniferous of some sort.

Murphy woke up into what seemed to be a dropship. His vision a blurry mess, he couldn’t figure anything out. Mbege was at his side, his always partner in crime, talking to him in whispers about… about what? It hurt so much.

**–––––––––––**

He got out of the dropship beside Mbege, his body in pain after the “smooth” landing. He saw Mbege run, then kneel on the ground, tears dropping from his eyes, a hysterical laugh resounding from his chest and reverberating through his body. No one seemed to care, too awestruck with the tall trees, the ground under their feet and everything. He felt overwhelmed.

**Hope** crept up from his stomach to his heart, finding residence there. _It was fucking scary_. A flickering smile on his face. His lungs were slowly filling with the new scents. So earthy, like how in the hell would he know what _earthy_ meant? He guessed it was something like this: musky, damp, fresh and so green. His eyes closed for a second, taking in the sensations, in the scents. He swore he could fucking cry at that moment. His eyes opened, the view was breathtaking, he doubted he deserved to be down there.

He approached Mbege, an arm slung lazily over his shoulder, a smug smile plastered in his face while muttering about how the damn people from the Ark could go fuck himself, he was free and on the Earth. _Fucking finally_.

Then, Bellamy Blake, as he introduced himself —as if nobody knew him and his sister— was in front of them, all hard glares and tensed shoulders. They could smell on him the willpower to own everything he set his eyes on. They barely hesitated, following him with his empty promises of the world under them. But they still were on their little bubble, thinking they were the kings of the new world.

**–––––––––––**

A week on the ground, they were trying to establish a camp before exploring the area, for safety reasons. They may be the only humans, but that doesn’t mean that out there were different kinds of predators.

Murphy followed Bellamy like a puppy asking for treats. He admired him and respected him, but soon enough, he realised it was more than just admiration for the older guy. He like _like_ him, he was crushing on him so hard that whenever he as so much a girl going out of his tent, he took it out on Connor or whoever was near him at the moment; and when Bellamy so much as looked at him, talked to him, he was a bundle of nerves hidden in his sarcastic self. He was so fucked.

The first time he noticed something was going on with him and his stupid self, was when Bellamy talked to him after Wells called him an idiot for his bad spelling, fucking sorry he didn’t have the same opportunities as him up in the Ark.

After Murphy bickered with Mbege and went on like as if nothing didn’t happen, as if Wells words didn’t hurt him, he went outside the camp and sat with his back on a tree. He watched as the people work on the camp, gathering whatever they could find nearby and in the dropship, but he didn’t notice when Bellamy sat down beside him.

He was all sweet words of: _“you’re not stupid”_ and praises such as: _“you worth more than him could ever”_. Those words were doing something strange in his stomach, something he couldn’t put a name on, not yet. They laughed and talked and soon Bellamy was off to control over the camp, Murphy hot on his heel.

The second time he could put a name on what he was feeling. Murphy didn’t even know what he was doing, frustrated because he couldn’t tie a fucking knot strong enough to the fucking improvise bag when he heard Finn-I-am-morally-superior-than-everyone-else laughing at him. Luckily, Bellamy was close enough to hear him and shut his mouth up before Murphy could even contemplate the idea of knocking off the smirk off of his face. Bellamy only nodded at Murphy and went to do whatever he did to manage the camp, and _fuck_ , thought Murphy, he was crashing harder than the dropship on him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

**–––––––––––**

His luck was such that Bellamy had to get mad at him for being what he is… a dick. Maybe it was his fault, but he didn’t need to get so touchy over it. Murphy just laughed at it, he didn’t start shit, to begin with. But it seemed that everybody just needed an excuse to get Bellamy so mad at him he would kick him out.

Usually, Bellamy ignored whatever was going on between Murphy and the rest of the camp, opting to let his second do whatever he wanted. This time, though, he needed to intervene. Murphy was a dick, yes, but this was beyond crossing the line, at least that was what people at camp thought. So he steps in and properly talked with Murphy, resulting in the longest ten minutes of his life because the kid couldn’t not get under his skin.

Maybe it was the snide and sharply answers he gave him, maybe it was his many smirks or maybe it was his icy blue eyes, but in that instant moment, Bellamy **_realised_**.

**–––––––––––**

Murphy chilled down a little after that and Bellamy couldn’t help but noticed how close he was with Mbege, the closest if not none. Murphy was oblivious to the many stares Bellamy threw his way the following days. What he was well aware was the subtle touches and the praises that went straight to him. Murphy was all twitchy everytime he was close to him.

The spell broke when people, more like Octavia, Clarke and the gang, went out of camp and returned without Jasper and they had to get his sorry ass back. They returned with him after almost getting killed. They were not alone.

**–––––––––––**

Octavia disappeared and Murphy was getting on his nerves. Two nights with restless sleep due to Jasper’s screams and Bellamy noticed.

During that day, Bellamy set his mind on ease the frown that adorned Murphy’s face. He stared so hard at him, Murphy had to notice, observing his every move like he was his next prey. Then, he made sure to be by Murphy’s side all the time, spending most of the morning teaching him how to throw the knife. They were so close to each other that if it wasn’t for their jackets, their skins would touch and Bellamy would notice how hot he made him. The contact left Murphy breathless and nervous, blushing like a kid.

But then, Jasper had to scream, _again_ , and Murphy failed the target, _again_ so Bellamy decided he would manage without him for hunting that day, but at least he left him in charge of the camp, sort of. He would kill that skinny ass called Jasper Jordan.

**–––––––––––**

That noon, he was finally on Bellamy’s tent. Murphy didn’t even know how or why but he was there.

Bellamy approached after his hunting trip back, all sweaty and hot, a frown on his face which disappeared when he saw Murphy still practising. The disappearing sun still hot on his skin, sweat running down his back, the shirt was clinging uncomfortably to his torso.

Bellamy laughed at his poor throwing skills, startling Murphy for a second but he quickly recovered his composure and seethed at him. It was so frustrating. A snarky comment on the tip of his tongue but stopped soon after seeing Bellamy’s tan freckled face.

“I see you’ve improved in the time I was out” a smirk on his face, the prick. Murphy gifted him with an eye-roll.

“What do you want, Blake?”

“What about you explain to me why do you almost killed Jasper?”

From there on, things escalated to a heated argument between the two. _If Bellamy didn’t want the boy dead, why did he put Murphy in charge, the idiot?_

The eloquent and final touch to their argument was a _fuck off, Bellamy_ from Murphy that brought them to the situation at hand. Them in the same tent.

Bellamy was now so close to him he felt his breath on Murphy’s cheek. His heart was beating fast while Bellamy’s fingers traced his palms up to his shoulders, discarding his jacket with a smooth movement, his fingers ghosting the skin of his arms. While doing so, his noses bumped and a barely-there kiss was pressed on Murphy’s lips.

Everything was in slow motion, their breaths mixing in a sweet kiss. Murphy’s lower lip was caught in between Bellamy’s teeth, his tongue caressing the roof of Bellamy’s mouth. The hands on his hips burning him with desire. A soft moan escaping his lips while burying his fingers on the black curls.

Bellamy broke the kiss to place a kiss on Murphy’s jaw, a sigh leaving his mouth.

On that night, he was hanged.

**–––––––––––**

He placed a kiss to his cheek and went out of the tent, a smile on his face. He was in a good mood, so he didn’t disturb much the others at camp. He stood there with Mbege on his side, overlooking people’s task on the camp when everything went to hell.

He pleaded for Bellamy’s help, he had to believe him, he had to. But he didn’t, Mbege was the only one who stood by his side, at least tried to. They beat him up and hanged him, he searched for Bellamy’s eyes one last time only to find him kicking the crate out of under his feet.

Amidst of all that pain, he recognised the betrayal. He was broke once again and then, banished. It hurt so much.

**–––––––––––**

He was caught off guard, trying to breathe through the pain when a grunt behind Murphy paralysed him and then it went black.

He woke tied up to a branch, his feet barely touching the ground. A group of five to eight grounders in front of him. He felt so scared.

The first hit was to his stomach, the man in front of him muttering something in a language he didn’t recognise. The second was to his rib, he felt something broking, and the third to straight to his nose, blood oozing out.

“Who are you?” spat the woman who broke his nose. He kept shut even when he saw the burning knife approaching him.

It was the longest three days of his life.

**–––––––––––**

He dragged himself through the mud, limping and whimpering. The next thing he knew, he was on the dropship with a fuming Bellamy and a reluctant Clarke. After he admitted to them that he told the grounders everything he knew, Clarke had to drag Bellamy out. A warm smile on his face while talking to him.

“I still don’t trust you, but everyone deserves a second chance,” she said while beginning to clean up the wounds on his face.

“Wasn’t the ground our, _my_ second chance, princess?”

**–––––––––––**

He puked his lungs out, the acidic bile running up through his stomach to his throat. He tried to breathe but it hurt, opting for shutting his eyes and banging his head to the wall. A splitting headache starting to form.

Later, he found out he was used as a bioweapon. He was always _used_. So now it was his turn to use others.

The first kill felt so sweet, Connor was trying so desperately to breathe, to stop him, to survive, just like he tried. The thrill of being caught only draw him a smile, he felt so liberated after a long time, he felt like he could start again. He liked watching him, watching them struggle just like he did. The blood rushing to his ears, he closed his eyes because of the pleasure rising from his guts. _So fucking sweet._

**–––––––––––**

Of course, everything had to go to hell. Jasper caught him but at least that drove him to get his hands on Bellamy sooner than was planned. The tanned man looking down on him, like always, but the tint of fear he saw in his eyes worth it.

“I want you to feel what I felt.”

He, under no circumstances, would accept his half-assed apology. He knew, he knew he was desperate to get out this, that he would say anything to make him stop. He wouldn’t give in to his pleas. Not anymore.

The noose was around someone else’s neck for once. He was enjoying every bit of it, ignoring the pain in his heart, ignoring his scarred mind and the tears falling down over his cheeks. His wounds now fresh open, he had to endure it. He had to endure the pain expression on Bellamy’s face, he had to endure his heart getting crushed again.

He looked up to him, he admired him, but Bellamy only took advantage of his vulnerability and his loneliness. He knew he was an easy prey and he let himself get caught by those beautiful brown eyes, and the soft touches. Those soft touches weren’t more than a demon feeding off on his flesh.

“You played with the wrong fool, Bellamy.”

He tugged at the leash, Bellamy’s face going red about to explode, just like him. He approached Bellamy one last time to touch his freckled face, losing himself counting them. Bile rising on his stomach. Bellamy struggled and with a final kiss, a sweet caress on his lips just like the first one they shared, he kicked the crate under him. This time, he didn’t enjoy watching his victim struggling for air, but he was getting his revenge.

The door to the dropship opened and he runs to the top floor, getting out by blowing the wall off. He looked behind him, Bellamy still alive returning his gaze, red marks around his neck. He was freed just like he once was, a weight off his chest, his lips trembling by running to the forest.

He hid under a trunk, trying desperately to gather his thought while tears run wild down his cheeks and all his body trembled. He was so fucked up. He was so worthless. He should have died instead of his father, instead of his mother. She was right all along. He stole the air his father was meant to breathe. He stole her love from her. He ripped them out only to become, what? A thief? A murderer? Someone so dispensable, so useless he got caught again by those damn grounders.

This time he barely put a fight, only needing the pain to alleviate his suffering. He put out for the torture for a while, breathing through his blood-filled lungs that burned so hard until he gave them the walkie and they gave him for dead. Too busy to attack the camp to pay any attention to him.

Once again, he found himself dragging through the mud, blood everywhere he could only see red. He just wanted to close his eyes and rest for eternity but something deep in his bones urge him to keep going and going. He found sanctuary on a car buried on the ground. With great effort, he opened the door, his wrists and shoulders screaming in pain, vomiting right beside the door due to the pain. He threw himself in and close the door. His head hit the opposite door, he saw white, a high whistle ringing in his ears. He shut his eyes tight.

He managed the pain to finally breathe, through his mouth though, his eyes closing slowly. The blood and piss wetting his clothes, he didn’t care anymore. He felt the ground moving around him and prayed for no one to see him. If they caught him, this time he wouldn’t survive.

He dreamt of his father, of his mother, and the tears flood his eyes. He dreamt for hours, easing into the pain. A gross smile decorating his blood-stained face. He finally closed his eyes and let himself be immersed into those sweet dreams, shivering and cold, but finally free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it may not make total sense with the first season but, whatever, like there are some major plotholes regarding the series but I can't seem to remember everything exactly how it happened on the show.  
> I hope all of you enjoyed the chapter, the next one may be a little shorter but I'll try to make to the 3k, the truth is I'm having fun writing this fic, something I haven't felt for a long time.  
> Leaves kudos and reviews :·3
> 
> P.S: I think I need to add more tags u,u  
> P.P.S: You may want to listen to Kiss by Chester Lockhart, it was the lyrics I quoted 
> 
> THANK YOU :·3


	3. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain in his head subsided, and he could see now through the fog; the pain from the wound kept him grounded, even when it bothered him to move his arm.

**BUILT TO FALL**

_You are broken, crush to the very bone,_

_cut wide open, longing for a listening heartbeat,_

_hating on the outside, inside’s lonely._

**2.**

****He woke up on the car, almost burning alive. As soon as he opened his eyes, he could see the sky painted in red and orange that early left it black and grey. The heat in the car and his surely broken ribs hindered him to breathe. An acidic sensation filled his lungs. He coughed and coughed, blood spilling everywhere. He felt as if he was being hanged again; he closed his eyes.

He woke up again. He was sweaty and hot, but at least the heat inside the car subsided by a degree. The urge to get out surpassed the need to stay inside, safe. So with a great determination to not die roasted in a fucking, and probably radioactive, car, he knelt on it. He felt the door with his nail-less hands, swollen from torture. Murphy found the knob and clawed at it, too weak and painful, he barely could grip the handle. He breathed, counted to ten and pushed the door open, a silent scream on his mouth, his hands were bleeding once again.

He attempted to get up, and his legs only gave up under him. Once again, he was dragging himself through the dirt. Didn’t he belong there, though?

He was so dead he didn’t care anymore. He just closed his eyes and prepared to die suffocating in his own blood. But then he was held up on his feet, blonde hair under his nose, the fear overwhelmed him he started to yell and tremble. After a few minutes, _they_ managed to calm him down enough for him to realise they were from the Ark.

_**He felt safe again.** _

**–––––––––––**

Back in the Ark, he was quickly fixed up and discharged. He didn’t care they were treating him like garbage; the only reason they took care of him was for him to tell everything he knew. The princess was in danger, and he may be one of the few that could throw some light on their disappearance. For fuck’s sake, he was hiding in a car trying not to die, how in the hell would he know anything?

His luck was such a jerk they throw him in a cell with Bellamy fucking Blake. At least they were both cuffed to a post, or they would have tried to kill each other. Again.

“I endured it three days, isn’t that enough?” he was so tired.

“I wouldn’t have said nothing.”

It hurt so much no one noticed he had tried. He did. He protected them for three days of torture. Even when they banished him, he still thought of them as his people. Couldn’t they see that he tried? Couldn’t Bellamy see it? He once looked up to him only to discover he was as dispensable as everyone else who wasn’t his sister and Clarke.

**–––––––––––**

Sometimes he thought how much of an idiot he was. His mother was right all along. He should have expected _that_.

After the grounders demanded Finn’s head, he thought that the offer Raven made him to assist them meant he was finally being forgiven. That wasn’t the case at all. She only wanted him to give someone up, that someone meaning him. He was betrayed once again.

Thus, while Finn was being executed, he planned his escape, now that all grounders seemed to have united for the only purpose of killing one man. ' _Why'_ he didn’t understand. They were at war, and grounders all but talked big words about how in the name of war _their_ crimes must be forgiven, except if you are Skaikru. Then, they were the bad guys that must be punished. No one punished them for Mbege or many others.

He was so sick of the hypocrisy and their big talks and the fucking peace.

So while everyone was busy observing how things were developing, he sneaks out from one of the walls plot-hole, _idiots_.

**–––––––––––**

Murphy spent the next two days walking around the thick trees that conformed the forest. He had no direction nor a specific goal on mind. He only wanted to escape and be left alone and possibly die a painless death.

However, he was running out of supplies, which meant he had to hunt something or steal food from a grounder village. None of the two options was appealing to him, but he was so hungry and useless. He shouldn’t have left camp whatever.

Hunger made way to his head, setting his mind on the less deadly option: he had to steal something from a grounder village.

It wasn’t until the third day walking around the forest that he encountered with one, not only that, but it seemed as if all his warriors weren’t there, most of them children and elders. Wasn’t this his lucky day?

With agility he earned from his early years as a thief, he infiltrated the village at night. He made way to the hut were they stored most of his supplies. There was sweat on his back; the fear of being caught made him see everything slightly blurry. God knows what they would do to him if he gets caught.

He was a few feet away, hiding behind the hay but a child stood to close to the hut now. If he dares to move, he had no doubt he would be caught. A fat drop of sweat slide down his brow, he hear was pounding in his ear, his blood rushing. Muffled steps were approaching his hiding spot, he was so fucked, now. The blood drained from his body, his breathing increased. A thousand thoughts were going on about in his head, mostly ones of how _fucking stupid you are, John._ Just as he was about to get caught, the kid runs to someone, far enough for him to see an opening and sneak into the hut, almost dragging himself through the dirt as to not being seen.

Once inside, he could breathe again. Looking through the wood panels, he saw a man reaching for the hay, oh, he definitely would have been caught. Murphy left a nervous giggle out; he felt so relieved. He took a glance around; he didn’t have the time to experience relief. He didn't deserve such a break. 

Murphy opened his dirty bag and filled with everything he could find at hand, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He filled not only his bag but his stomach. The greasy-boy was so hungry. His attempt to run out of camp as soon as possible left out restoring his supplies, therefore, here he was.

**–––––––––––**

Another day went by with his feet dragging through the ground, a slight limp on them. While he made sure to put as much distance as possible between the village and him, he failed to notice a trunk on his way that leads him to roll downhill. He was a canvas full of scratches and bruises. His face was just as swollen as his right foot. He swore he could feel his face palpitate. Fuck.

The scorching sun didn’t help in the least. It burnt his skin, his face not only swollen and bruised but with a few blisters scattered here and there on his face. The sweat was only making them sting with the salt.

He stumbled on his feet, his face colliding with a tree on his side, the bark of it scratching his already scratched face and palms. He hissed in pain, banging his head on the tree just to feel more pain. One of the blisters popped open. Blood and pus oozing out down his chin.

Breathing in, he removed his left hand from the bark, the tips of his fingers scraped against the bark, dull pain on his still growing nails. Breathing out, he guides his trembling hand to his bag, the mere act of opening it left a sting on his sensitive fingertips. _Breath, in and out, breathe_. He felt for a rag made of what once was a t-shirt. He wrapped his fingers into the bump that was the rag, his hand now moving upwards and out of the bag, he grazes his hand on the opening, and the sting made him close his eyes. _Breathe, in and out, don’t rush_ , he reminded himself. Finally, his hand was out, the wind brushing his fingers and many wounds, it stung. Trembling and shaking, he pressed the rag against the now open blister, the blood will stop, but the infection would only get worse. The cloth was so dirty and full of blood and other fluids, the smell almost made him puke.

After a few minutes, he threw the rag back inside his back and started moving his feet. He had to endure it if he wanted to make it somewhere safe. With a sigh and rolling his shoulders, he advanced through the thick forest, stopping once in a while to catch his breath or every time the mere rumble of the leaves startled him, and he had to kneel on the ground until he made sure there was no one besides him on the forest.

**–––––––––––**

It was getting dark, and his vision was fuzzy. It was long ago since he lost the sensitivity of his face and right hand. That wasn’t a good sign, and he needed shelter for the night. Something in the back of his mind reminded him that most predators hunted in the dark of the night; and beaten as he was, he was going to be easy prey. Clawed and eaten alive by a panther or something else equally terrifying.

Where could he hide if not up to the trees that he could not possibly climb up? ' _A bunker'_ supplied a familiar voice that sounded like Finn. Great, he was now hallucinating, or maybe it was that conversation he heard between the Skywalker ant the Princess about a bunker.

If he were lucky enough, maybe he would find one to shelter himself. He just needed to dig through the ground like the cockroach he was. So, he knelt on the ground and started feeling the ground, the night was falling rapidly on his head, and he barely moved a few metres, between ten or twelve. He was growing desperate, thick tears rolling down his cheeks, dampening the ground under his fingers.

Suddenly, he halted. He was being ridiculous, what were his chances to find a bunker tonight, anywhere? Skywalker was only lucky. He set his gaze onto the sky, the moon rising slowly to take his place; slowly, he observed the trees around him, maybe he could find one to climb, with low branches to help him, enough for him to survive the night when he saw it. An opening in a tree, not the smartest idea, the hole probably filled with insects and rodents, but better than trying to climb a tree with his shattered hands and weak body.

He started dragging himself towards the tree when he felt it. The pain in his knee was put in the back of his mind in order to hope to fill his mind and weary eyes. He could not believe it. He felt the ground with his hands, digging through the dirt, touching the cold metal with his hands.

Desperate and silently, he forced himself to open the damn door. He brought his finger to the handles, the freezing pain numbed his mind for a second, having to shut his eyes tight. Then, the odyssey to pull out the rag started once again. As soon as it was out, he wrapped it around the handles of the door, counting to three, he clasped his hands around it, feeling the dry and stiff material scratch his palms, the sting was deafening. He counted to three once again, the handles held tight, breathing out, he used all his strength to rotate the handles that with a mortifying slowness, gave up under his weight and barely-there strength. The door opened.

**–––––––––––**

After almost falling face-first into the bunker, he managed somehow to safely close the door. It was dark, but if someone were there, they would have already attacked. He, then, proceded to stumble into the bunker, grazing everything he could until he found a soft surface where he could rest for a few minutes. These few minutes became a few hours that became a day and a half.

He woke up with a splitting headache; the fear of having been caught creeping up his bones. He jumped on his place, his breathing erratic. Everything was so dark. He embraced himself and cried until he fell asleep once again. He had nightmares that day.

Once again, he opened his eyes. This time, the darkness did nothing to him but reminding him that he was somehow facing, the lucky bastard. He left out a weak smile and a sigh that soon became a scream of happiness and relief.

Shaking, he walked through the bunker, hitting the walls and everything in his way. He couldn’t bring himself to care, though, not until he came out with a box on his feet, a few fluorescent tubes rolling down the ground, two of them already on. Wasn’t he lucky?

He used the fluorescent tubes to light the box to find a few lamps on one of them. He turned it on, the warm glow illuminating the bunker full of supplies. A shaky breath found its way past his lips, the weight of the world finally crushing him, the despair and hope colliding with him at the same time he fell on his knees, not minding the pain at all. **He was safe but alone.**

**–––––––––––**

It’s been two days since he found refuge on the bunker. The pain was slowly fading into black and purple bruises. He had enough supplies to last for an eternity, what with the ones he stole and the ones he found down there. He realised he needn’t go outside unless it were strictly necessary. Not like he minded.

Since his first day awake down there, that he hadn’t moved from his spot on the makeshift bed, only enough to turn on and off the lamp to save up some light. Still, on the fourth day, he gathered enough energy to get up and walk a few steps around the bunker. Laying down would only help so far.

A sharp pain shot from his right wrist to his shoulder, his lungs seemed to hardly function what with the dust, and the pain, the limp on his foot was better than when he was out there. He fell on a table that was against the wall opposite his _bed_. There, he managed to sit on the dusty chair, a creak indicating the chair has since long been used.

The effort to move only a few steps left him worn out, he puffed out some air and began to breathe a little too fast. _Count to ten, breathe in, breathe out_. He stomped his “good” foot on the floor, an angry scream made its way out, his face red due to the rage that suddenly filled him. With his left hand, he rummaged through one of the boxes on the table to find one of the cans stored there. _This is gonna be fun._

**–––––––––––**

A week went on without Murphy being aware of that fact. The swell on his body leaving pass to his real shape, now he could even open both his eyes. He was numb without the pain, not feeling anything but the void on his skull. Perhaps, he was made to suffer through ineffable pain and endless migraines. He was born to the dirt and the blood on his mouth. _Yes, I am_.

He didn’t want to feel numb nor painless nor _weak_. He raised his left arm close to his face, examining it tightly in the dim light the lamp offered. His eyes held a red aqueous shine, his breath shaky and lips were trembling. His right hand made way to his wrist, the tip of the knife stick to his skin, a red drop painting his pale and sickly skin; then, he began to drag the knife down, the sound of the skin breaking felt like home, blood falling to his chest and face. The cut reached the inside of his elbow. It was in-depth and bold.

He closed his eyes, a smile on his bloody face.

**–––––––––––**

On the fifth day, he opened his eyes again. He was alive.

He sat up and searched for his left arm, nothing was there, on his right arm either. He all but dreamt the pain and the blood. But, if something was real in his dream, it was the sensation of freedom and relief.

This time he didn’t hesitate, he grabs the knife tucked in his boot and cut through the skin of his hand, blood oozing out and wetting the mattress, the tears soon followed the blood to the mattress. A pain-filled moan escapes his lips; he shut tight his eyes. He traced the wound with trembling fingers and painted his hand in vermilion.

He pressed the rag to his wound while looking for some sort of the first-aid kit, finding in the farthest box. With hollow eyes, he bandaged his arms and felt free from the pressure on his chest. That day he could get up and inspect the rest of the bunker.

**–––––––––––**

Two weeks went by, and Murphy barely noticed it. He started looking more like himself and not like a significant big black-purple bruise. Murphy began to roam the bunker, inspecting everything until he knew by memory what was everything he had there. He even managed to find clean clothes, they were a little oversized, but it was better than his old dirty and crappy ones.

But after two weeks, the bunker was smelly. Nausea came back every time he breathed, no doubt it was because of all the blood, the vomit, the piss and the stool all in the same bucket. Even so, he still hadn’t found in himself the will to go out to clean the bucket.

The scars on his left arm were healing rather fast, the ridges tinted in a hue of pink and brown. Most of them would have needed a few stitched, but he got by the bandages and the first-aid kit he found. However, new ones were adorning his right arm. The new gauze was painted in crimson, and it was with great effort he could move his arm.

Not only his arms were scarred with new ones, but also his upper thighs and his ribs. They masked themselves with the ones the grounders left him, but if you look closely, you could see they weren’t the same faded colour.

At this moment, he was sat in the table, his feet dangling while he muttered an old lullaby and a knife in his hand. The small was unbearable, and he needed the strength only his knife could provide.

He stopped humming, his eyes flickered. The knife danced between his tingling fingers down his throat to his chest. The humming resumed. He played with the hem of his shirt with his fingers, the brush on his stomach sent sparks all around his body. Carefully, he lifted it to his mouth; the fabric was dry against his chapped mouth. The knife was desperate to cut through some flesh, so, slow and easy, he dragged the tip down his chest; the action made the hair of his arms stand up, his skin was now so sensitive. Then, the knife was sinking on his flesh, red drops adorning his stomach, pooling down his pants. His eyes rolled back into his skull, the shirt falling from his mouth, sliding down his chest and soaking in the carmine blood.

**–––––––––––**

It’s been a week since that _incident_. Now Murphy was determined to keep the bunker as clean as he could after breathing in the earthy smell the ground gifted him. Still, as paranoid as he was, he kept himself low on the ground, startled by every sound, the sweat always dampening his back and his eyes moved fast to take in all the terrain before him. It was worth it; it was worth the wind touching his hair and teasing like needles into his wounds, the smell of earth and lush green and the sun, the sun burning his face and hands, cleaning him.

He grew cautious of his surroundings, knowing by hand all around him as to not get lost. He knew every crook and nook around the bunker, the best places to hide in order not to be caught if grounders were close enough he didn’t have time to return to the shelter. He was so immersed not to be detected by grounders, that he didn’t contemplate the possibility of being caught by the arkers or the hundred.

After two weeks roaming the forest, in and out of the bunker, he met with Jaha and his delusional followers. He thought he might trade some of his supplies with them; they weren’t grounders, they wouldn’t hurt him, much less, try to get him back to the Ark. He was _Murphy_ , and no one wanted him back.

Nonetheless, Jaha was prone to gain new devotees. He was so afraid of them finding out where he was hiding. He decided to follow them for a short time. He was close to sneak up to his bunker, but Jaha knew how to talk to him, how to charm him, he saw right through him.

He was now too far from his safe place and to close to a danger he saw in the eyes of Jaha. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor baby, I hate to do this to him :(  
> I hope you enjoyed it? This chapter was a tiny bit sad to write. I suffered along Murphy.  
> The quote if from the son Broke by Eivør.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is a summary of the next chapters to come.  
> The next chapter will be longer, 3k minimum :)  
> I hope you enjoyed and share your thoughts
> 
> P.S I love Murphy, so I am biased


End file.
